


Christmas Island

by ssclassof56



Series: Agent Pemberley [20]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, F/M, Hawaii
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 09:10:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17019861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssclassof56/pseuds/ssclassof56
Summary: Some UNCLE office Christmas party fluffWritten for LiveJournal's Section7MFU - Short Affair ChallengePrompts: curve / red





	Christmas Island

Illya surveyed the room, eyes narrowed, hands clenched. Though an arctic front had put the city into a deep freeze, the temperature in the gymnasium was positively sultry. The twang of a steel guitar accompanied the Yuletide songs playing over the speakers. Fine white sand covered the floor. Colored lights blinked from potted palms. An inflatable pool, bulging with frolickers, took up one corner. On the opposite wall, a row of bikini-clad secretaries reclined in lounge chairs, bronzing themselves under sunlamps. 

A trickle of sweat rolled down Illya’s back. He yanked at the scarf around his neck, entangling himself in its length. While he wrestled with the woolen boa constrictor, something light and airy struck him in the head.

Napoleon trotted over to scoop up the beach ball. Illya, taking in his partner’s leather sandals, cabana set, and colorful lei, hissed, “What happened to a Dickens Christmas?”

“Change of plans. Sorry. Meant to tell you.” 

“Of course, you did.”

Napoleon lobbed the striped ball to the beckoning merrymakers. “‘Christmas Island’ is a much better theme.” 

Watching the bevy of bouncing beauties vie for the ball, Illya said, “Yes, I can see why you would think that.”

“You’d rather the girls were covered from the neck down?”

“I appreciate a sense of mystery. Speaking of which, I wish your legs were still a mystery.”

Napoleon looked down at his knees. “Why? What’s wrong with them?”

“They’re as pale as a corpse’s. Don’t they ever see the light of day?”

“Day? No. Nighttime, now that’s a different story.” He adjusted Illya’s black top hat. “I knew you’d make a perfect Scrooge. Get yourself a cold drink. You don’t want to overheat.”

With a final impudent grin, Napoleon strolled back to his version of a fitness regimen.

Illya stalked over to the tiki bar. He grabbed a coconut from the tray and, throwing away the pink paper umbrella, tossed back a swig of the tropical concoction. The rum burned a pleasant trail down his throat. He wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his black frock coat and sat on the corner stool, slouching over the bar to glower at a nearby hula lesson.

One of the students stared back. Stifling a laugh, Faustina sauntered closer, her hips swaying with each step. The sarong that hugged her curves looked suspiciously like her kitchen table cloth. “Did you know the movements tell a story?” she asked, as she continued a series of graceful gestures.

“Let me guess,” he said and slurped on his straw. “Your goldfish died when the cleaning woman overfed it.”

Her eyes flashed above her smile. “Not even close. See if you get this.”

Illya coughed and slapped his chest. “Yes, that I understand,” he croaked, wiping his eyes, “but I am not flexible enough to accomplish it.”

“Pity.” She took the coconut from his hand. “You look hot, Ebenezer.”

“I’m sweltering.” The corners of his mouth dented as she finished his drink.

“Why not change?”

“Into what? My underwear?”

She smiled around the straw. “You’d have the women’s vote for best dressed.”

He rolled his eyes. “I think, like my dramatis persona, I shall be ‘secret and self-contained and solitary as an oyster.’”

“You are not going home.”

“I cannot stay in this.” He tugged at the lapel of his heavy coat.

Faustina put down the coconut and, extending her arms with interwoven fingers, cracked her knuckles. “Then let’s do something about that.”

A short while later, Illya lay on his side on a beach blanket, bare feet crossed at the ankle, rolled pant legs concealed by a grass skirt. His white dress shirt was open to the waist and knotted. A straw beachcomber sat in place of his top hat. An entire puu puu tray, liberated from the caterers, sat before him. He hummed along to ‘Here Comes Santa in a Red Canoe’ while charring a skewer of beef.

Faustina sat crossed-legged beside him, shaking her head as she watched Napoleon cavort with the hula instructor. “He’s got St. Vitus Dance,” she giggled.

Napoleon swung his knees in and out and flapped bent arms. “Good, huh?” 

“Your accent is terrible,” Illya said and tore a bite from the skewer.

Napoleon screwed up his face. “You think you could do better?”

“I know I could.” Illya removed the paper umbrella from his pineapple and sniffed at the cocktail. “But I don’t want to overheat.”

Faustina stuck the red umbrella into her hair, then hopped to her feet. “I’ll show you how it’s done.”

They changed places. Napoleon, his eyes fixed on Faustina’s revolving hips, nudged Illya with his elbow. “It’s more fun to watch.” 

“It is an ancient art form in which each gesture is imbued with significance. If you pay the right kind of attention, you will see she is telling a story.”

Napoleon cocked his head. “Flames. I got that. Ah, a hill? No? I can’t quite make out what she’s saying.”

“Can you not? I understand her perfectly.” Illya chuckled and popped a shrimp into his mouth.

“Oh, really? Then translate, kahuna.”

“It’s the tale of the first lieutenant in the Russian navy to burn down an igloo.”


End file.
